


Jon the Hippie Healer

by Mullsandmutts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, Declarations Of Love, M/M, No sex (sorry Mos), Realization, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mullsandmutts/pseuds/Mullsandmutts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 2016 Blackhawks Virus That Shall Not Be Named has struck the team and is working its way through.  Jon has a plan to keep Patrick healthy and on track for all the trophies.  But what happens when they realize that there's more to healing than weird ass alternative medicine?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jon the Hippie Healer

**Author's Note:**

> So Jon is a modern-day hippie. And he will of course want Patrick to stay healthy to do the thing and win the trophies this year. So when you put one plus one together, ridiculous shenanigans occur. 
> 
> There was very little research done here. Do not assume in any way that I have any idea what I am talking about when it comes to essential oils and how to use them and such. I researched what was used to heal/help what and where they go on the body, but in terms of whether or not they can be combined, how much to use, etc., I am no guiding voice on this and you should speak to a real expert if you are interested. 
> 
> Per usual, I did not have this betaed so any and all mistakes are mine. I apologize in advance but hey, I wanted to get it out in a somewhat timely manner so what are you gonna do?
> 
> Shout out to my little group of pals for their inspiration and who would probably rather not be named here in case this is absolutely mortifying. Which, probably.
> 
> If nothing else, I hope it makes you smile in much the same way that the little hair-challenged monster and his fond dopey captain make us smile. Kaner is at 83 points -- here's to a six point game at the Stadium Series and a new career point record!!!!!
> 
> If you are reading this, let me take a moment to thank you for believing in Mr. Patrick Kane and still seeking him out at least in a fictional setting. And if you are Mr. Patrick Kane (or someone he knows) reading this, for the love of all that is holy, get the hell out of here while you still can ...

Patrick notices the way Jon gets a bit of the crazy eyes when Temi officially goes down with the Blackhawks Plague of 2016. He supposes he can't blame Jonny. The Bug That Shall Not Be Named did keep him from doing his NHL duties at the All Star Game. Although, really, if anyone gets to be pissed, Patrick feels like it should be the guy that suffered the boos alone in Nashville without support from his best friend, the one who is the only guy to not get a vacation this season. Not the guy who got to lay on a beach for five days. Beach guy can probably fuck right off.

 

But Beach guy is Jon. And if anyone is disappointed in himself about not working through a break, not being there for Patrick, and bravely forcing himself to sit on perfect beach drinking rum, it is the bizarre creature created by Andree and Bryan Toews.

 

So Patrick understands Jon’s freaked look at the news about Temi. Understands it but dreads it because in no universe does this end quietly and rationally. Whatever Jon decides to do will be ridiculous, probably worth a screaming match, and is definitely going to involve Patrick in some way.

 

Patrick sighs heavily as he pointedly ignores Jon’s focused stare, pulling on his gear for practice in what Jon should be well acquainted with as his don't-even-right-now-Tazer body language.

 

After a few moments, Jon picks up his phone and wanders out into the hall of Jonny’s Ice House. Patrick hears him say “Hey Sharpy,” as the door shuts. Patrick frowns. Maybe he wanted to talk to Sharpy, that beautiful aging bastard.

 

The bets begin the minute the door closes behind him.

 

“Totally getting this whole building and the entire UC fumigated and sterilized,” Crow shakes his head as he straps on his pads.

 

“Making all the wives, girlfriends, and children of players, coaches, and staff get antibiotics and see doctors within twenty-four hours,” Rasmussen offers. Arty and Patrick catch eyes and shake heads in sad solidarity. Clearly the rookies who are single don't realize that Jon already gently encouraged that the minute he was banned from playing.

 

“Gonna involve the core,” Hammer groans and Hossa mimics. Seabs and Duncs nod sadly in agreement. Thus far the core has escaped the plague and Jon will want to keep it that way.

 

“Nope,” Shawzy is confident as he tapes his stick. “Well, not the whole core. No, Captain Crazy was dialed in with the radar eyes on old Kaner here.” Patrick glares at him even though he knows Andrew is dead on.

 

“Sorry man,” Dez nods sympathetically. “Gotta side with Shawzer here. Whatever it is, it's all about #88.” Patrick sighs wearily and let's his shoulders droop

 

“You fuckers are going to owe me so much steak,” Patrick mutters and finishes dressing, feeling a bit as though he is preparing for his doom.

 

***********************************************************************************************************

 

Practice is fine but Patrick is definitely distracted. It's not like he's unused to Jon’s weird moods or odd glares. Shit, he's been raised on those. It’s probably more a combination of knowing something is “up” and the fact that his line is being fucked with now that Temi is out. That's what he's going with anyway.

 

Patrick wanders back in from the showers, towel around his waist as he taps at the side of his head to get the water out of his ear. Why does that even happen? He’s contemplating the science and biology of that answer as he strolls through the half-empty locker room. He is so absorbed in his contemplations (has to be some kind of vacuum created by the ear canal but why is what he's saying) when he feels a warm hand on his shoulder out of nowhere and makes a high-pitched squeak.

 

“What the fuck, dude?” Patrick clutches at his heart like the old man from Sandford and Son. Jon rolls his eyes, incredibly familiar with and immune to Patrick’s flair for the dramatic. Patrick observes that the room is mostly empty except for the core who are strategically place around the room in what Patrick hopes is some kind of hostage extraction formation should it come down to it. Pat is kind of touched.

 

“Stop being such a melodramatic ass,” Jon harrumphs. Just as Patrick is about to launch into exactly what Jon can do with his melodramatic ass, he stops Jon’s eyes have narrowed dangerously.

 

“What?” Patrick tenses. Jon leans forward and glares. Like, whoa, personal space. Tazer is all up in Patrick’s face. He doesn't just look, he bores holes into Patrick's face with his eyes.

 

“You are awfully flushed,” Jon accuses. “Do you have a fever?”

 

“What? No,” Patrick scoffs. Given the Hanta Virus or Ebola or whatever it is that's spreading across the team, Patrick can hardly be offended when Seabs grabs Duncs and they high tail it out of the room, Shawzy and Hoss right behind them. So much for his rescue squad.

 

“How do you know? Did Doc check? Did you? Do you feel overheated or chilled?” Jon is systematically ticking off symptoms now.

 

“Actually I am chilled, you giant jackass,” Patrick replies dryly. “Because I’m dripping wet and you’re giving me the third degree. Can I put on pants now?” Jon blanches and steps back. Patrick has no illusions that it’s because he feels bad or is even modest. No, Jon likely is letting him get dressed merely so that Patrick doesn't catch his death as his grandma used to say. Because Tazer really is a ninety year old woman sometimes.

 

Jon sits down at the stall next to his, clearly not actually going anywhere. Patrick finishes dressing and sits down to put on his socks.

 

“You know,” Patrick jerks on his sock, purposely not wincing when it catches his toenail. “You are really damn lucky that I am a flexible and adaptable buddy who is able to roll with the weirdness that rolls around inside that noggin of yours.”

 

Jon doesn’t look offended nor does he argue. He accepted his own weirdness a long time ago so Patrick’s words mean no skin off his nose.

 

“You’re a lot more fun to be around when you are quiet and stoic, just fyi,” Jon deadpans, reaching down to tie his own laces. He stands up, shrugging into his leather coat and pulling a toque over his head. He grabs his gear bag and stands while Pat does the same thing.

 

“What?” Patrick looks at him as he just stands there like a freak.

 

“Come on,” Jon guides him out of the room with a hand on the back of his neck. Patrick could try to shrug it off but life experience has taught him the futile nature of such things. Best to let Jon do Jon and handle the clean up after.

 

“Where are we going?” Patrick does ask finally when Jon steers him toward Jon’s car rather than his own vehicle.

 

“Your dad is going to come get your truck,” Jon shudders in distaste at the vehicle. “He’s going to have it thoroughly cleaned and sanitized.” Patrick is hopeful. If that’s the extent of Jon’s craziness, that’s not so bad.

 

“You called my dad? Okayyyyyy,” Patrick drawls, throwing his gear into Jon’s trunk and climbing into the passenger seat. He usually does all that he can to avoid upsetting Jon if he’s driving. No repeats of crashes into trains are necessary.

 

Jon pulls out onto Madison and heads in a direction not that of Trump Tower.

 

“Where are we going? My house is that way. I know it’s been a while but …..” Patrick doesn’t mean to have that sound as bitchy as it does but it actually has been a long time since they’ve hung out so Jon can deal.

 

“We are not going to your house and whatever germs are probably festering there,” Jon snorts.

 

“Hey,” Patrick has to act offended. His mom cleans his apartment. He feels like he needs to defend her honor or something. Jon just rolls his eyes and continues driving.

 

Patrick quickly recognizes the route. “So we’re going to your house where there have been actual confirmed germs from your bout with the plague?” he demands.

 

“My house has been completely cleaned and sanitized,” Jon sniffs arrogantly. Patrick just stares at his profile.

 

“Is it terrifying and horrific to be you?” Patrick asks incredulously. “I mean, it’s terrifying and horrific to know you so I think it’s only normal that I would assume that actually being you must be pretty fucking miserable.” Jon doesn’t even give him an eyeroll, just a small snort and flips him off.

 

They pull into Jon’s garage and Patrick starts to go back to the trunk.

 

“No,” Jon says firmly. “Leave that stuff there. I’m going to have it steam cleaned.”

 

Patrick has one of two options here. He can become indignant and start telling Jon how ridiculous he is being. Or, he can basically shrug and let the big dumb bastard do what he wants. One is bound to end up in a fun screaming match but the other might get Patrick a sandwich, beer, and some Call of Duty. Donna Kane didn’t raise no dummies.

 

Patrick settles into a seat at the kitchen island (settles, not clambers up like a child, fuck off Sharpy) while Jon throws his keys onto the counter and heads upstairs to change. Patrick is just finishing snooping through the pile of mail by the telephone when he hears Jon coming back down.

 

“Stop going through my mail, asshole,” Jon grouches and throws an armload of clothes at Patrick. “Put the dirty stuff in the washing machine and run a load. On hot.” Patrick could argue that he just put the shirt on so it’s not dirty but ... Sandwich.

 

Patrick goes into the laundry room to change and dump his clothes into the washing machine. He didn’t expect new clothes from Jon but the ratty t-shirt and shorts Jon had given him were a little insulting. So Patrick gleefully leaves sixty cents in the pocket of his pants because the tink-tink-tink of the coins in the washing machine and/or dryer is the kind of thing that will drive Jon absolute bat shit crazy.

 

When he comes back into the kitchen, his eyes start to water.

 

“Holy shit,” Patrick waves a hand in front of his eyes like a southern belle. “Are we fighting vampires later, Buffy?”

 

“It’s garlic soup,” Jon says haughtily as he leans over a large pot that is boiling on the stove. “It has fifty-two cloves of garlic and ginger and lemon and …..”

 

“And no one will kiss you for weeks, man,” Patrick snorts and climbs up to sit on the counter mostly because Jon hates it but also so that he can watch the almost soothing action of Jon chopping and cutting the various items going into the pot.

 

“It’s not for me,” Jon chirps with a smug grin.

 

“Well unless you’re going to knock me down and sit your giant ass on me, it sure as hell isn’t for me. No way am I eating that.”

 

Patrick winces at the contemplative look he receives from Jon. Jon WILL knock him down and sit his giant ass on him to do it. He’s knocked Pat down and sat his giant ass on him for far less philanthropic reasons many a time in the past.

 

Jon pauses long enough to pull the screaming tea kettle off the back burner and dump the steaming water into a mug. He scoots the mug to Patrick. “Drink.”

 

“It’s like fucking lava,” Patrick says, not whines. Jon rolls his eyes and pulls an ice bucket out of the fridge, dumping three blocks into the mug before shoving it back in the fridge.

 

“Better princess?” Jon goes back to chopping.

 

Patrick sniffs at the cup as if it might be holding a bomb in it’s depths. Near as he can tell, it only contains tea and lemon and maybe honey.

 

“Drink the damn tea,” Jon points the large spoon at him menacingly. “It’s echinacea tea and I dumped a shit ton of honey in there to make it sweet for you, you giant baby.”

 

“You are a horrible host,” Patrick drawls. “You should know that about yourself.” Jon glares until Patrick takes a sip and huh, not bad. Satisfied, Jon goes back to dumping things into the large pot. After a while he cleans up the area, washes his hands, and reduces the pot to a simmer.

 

Patrick was cool with the tea and the vampire soup but he legit gulps when Jon turns a focused and gleeful stare in his direction and rubs his hands together. This can’t be good.

 

“Now the fun stuff,” Jon grins, maybe even maniacally.

 

“People know where I am, Tazer,” Patrick says in a tone one uses with the crazy, or Jonathan Toews. “They saw me leave with you, they know I was in your car. My fingerprints are everywhere and my clothes are in your washing machine. If I disappear suddenly, you are suspect number one.”

 

“I’ve always been suspect number one,” Jon shrugs and reaches up into the cupboard to grab a plastic container of something. “People have watched you in action for years and sympathize with me. Most people are genuinely shocked that I haven’t killed you yet to be honest.”

 

“Hey! Fuck you,” Pat says in a hurt voice that is meant to be mocking but kind of not because it’s not like Patrick isn’t one hundred percent aware of the way his past appears to many people. But not to Tazer. So the sting may actually be a little real on that one. “And what they hell is all that? Is it poison? Drugs to incapacitate-Patrick-so-I-can-make-a-dress-out-of-his-skin drugs?.”

 

Jon snorts. He had pulled the plastic container down before him and was pulling out probably two dozen tiny vials of liquid. The labels are all different color. The print is small enough that Patrick can’t read it from where he is perched. And he has no desire to be any closer to the mad scientist than necessary at this point.

 

Jon turns and pins him with a look. He narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side. Patrick manfully does not externally wince, cringe, or freak out. He meets Jon’s crazy stare bravely.

 

“Come here, Patrick,” Jon actually crooks his fingers.

 

“I’m good,” Patrick says, leaning back against the cupboard and kicking his feet against the drawer where they dangle.

 

“I’m not fucking up my back to reach up that way,” Jon grumps. “Just come here.”

 

“To reach up what way?” Patrick narrows his eyes. “To like choke me to death or some shit?”

 

“You know,” Jon drawls. “I hadn’t actually planned on killing you before you came over here. But keep talking. I’m sure you’ll get me there pretty quickly.”

 

Jon shows him the vials. “These,” he sighs longsufferingly as he holds up a few, “are essential oils, you uncultured sloth. They have medicinal healing properties. Read a fucking book sometime.”

 

“I read,” Patrick squawks indignantly.

 

“We’ve talked about this. Twilight doesn’t count,” Jon murmurs distractedly as he looks at something on his phone.

 

“Remember when I said you were a terrible host?” Patrick deadpans. “I believe I was understating that. You’re actually a terrible human being.”

 

“So I’ve been told,” Jon murmurs as he put his phone into his pocket.

 

Pat’s mouth snaps shut. That. Huh. The idea of someone talking that way to Jon is actually kind of enraging. Patrick can talk to him like that. He might even tolerate Sharpy or Seabs saying it. Certainly Duncs can because hello, the dude took a puck to the face and continued playing after he spit out seven teeth so that fucker could say whatever he wants. But no one else can. Jon is family. Jon is his. And Patrick is filled with an overwhelming protective fire. He will shred anyone that tries to hurt Jon.

 

“By who?” Patrick’s voice is a deadly calm. Enough so that Jon’s head shoots up and he looks at Patrick in surprise. Something about his face softens. Patrick almost falls off the counter when he realizes that Jon may have actually experienced an emotion just then..

 

“Easy Killer,” Jon’s smile is fond and soft. “While I appreciate the sentiment, it is not worth your time or energy. Let it go. Now. Come. Here.”

 

Patrick isn’t fooled by the soft smile for a minute. He knows he has about twelve seconds to comply or Jon will come and forcibly yank him off the counter. It’s been done. With bruising and less than pleasant results. More than once.

 

Pat lets out the biggest, most long-suffering and annoyed sigh of his life before jumping down. He walks over to stand in front of Jonny, flourishing his hands in an impatient well-here-I-am gesture. Jon ignores him and slides over one of the stools, not too gently shoving Patrick onto it.

 

“Okay,” Jon looks at his phone. “First, we will start with thieves.”

 

Patrick looks at him like he lost his marbles.

 

“Say what now?” Patrick sits on the chair tensely, perched and ready to run if this is Jon losing it officially.

 

“Thieves is an oil that helps in immunity boosting.” Jon sighs his Patrick-is-a-fucking-moron sigh and washes his hands before picking up the tiny vial. “It’s actually a combination of oils. You’ll like it. I’m going to put some in a diffuser too so we can breathe it that way.”

 

“Did you become someone’s grandma while you were sick?” Patrick stares at Jon with suspicious eyes.

 

Jon ignores him and puts a drop or two of the oil onto his palm. Immediately Patrick can smell it and he has to admit, it is a hell of a lot better than the garlic soup. Kind of like gingerbread or Christmas cookies or something. He watches warily as Jon rubs the oil between his two palms.

 

“Okay,” Jon says seriously. “I am going to hold my hands over your face and you’re going to breathe deeply eight times.” The fact that he utters this sentence without even slightly flushing in embarrassment is mind-boggling to Patrick.

 

“Pass. I’m not falling for whatever trick it is you have up your sleeve. That’s how people wake up without kidneys,” Patrick snorts, half thinking it’s a joke. Only as Jon persists and gets up in front of him does Patrick realize it’s legit. Jon nudges Patrick’s thighs apart so he can step between them. And whoa, personal space here.

 

“Just do it, idiot,” Jon grumps. “I can hold my hands in front of you like this or I can stand behind you and hold my hands over your face.”

 

For some reason, the image of Jon pressed up against his back with his arms around him and controlling him in place makes Patrick’s stomach do weird things.

 

“Um,” he coughs. “In front is good. Don’t want to tempt you to choke me out.”

 

“Too late,” Jon smirks. He gently cups his hands around Patrick’s mouth and nose, barely grazing his skin but still somehow creating a little pocket of air and thieves oil. “Breathe Patrick. Slow and Deep. Eight times.”

 

It’s hard for Patrick to do that with the way he feels hemmed in oddly all of the sudden. He feels very hot and the room feels really small. He can smell Jon’s deodorant and shampoo, the woodsy smell complementing the gingerbread smell of his hands. He closes his eyes, not wanting to have the awkward eye contact of Jon being so close in his personal space. He slowly breathes in and out, inhaling the scent of Jon and the oils. He feels a little dizzy and assumes it must be the oils. When he hits his eighth breath, he allows his eyes to open and watches as Jon steps back softly and watches him closely.

 

“How do you feel?” Jon asks with a furrowed brow.

 

“Um,” Patrick croaks, his voice breaking a bit. He coughs. “Um, good, I think. Maybe a little dizzy. But okay?” Jon beams.

 

“That’s normal,” he turns to wash his hands. “That’s a lot of new stuff that’s super concentrated coming into your midget lungs. Just breathe normal for a few minutes while I get the next one ready. Drink some water.”

 

“Fuck you, midget lungs. Wait, there’s more?” Patrick does not whine. Jon looks over his shoulder with a cocked eyebrow. Of course there’s more.

 

This time Jon turns to a pile of small ceramic bowls. He takes a little, is that fucking olive oil, and dumps a bit into the first two bowls. He then drops three tiny drops of oil from one vial into the first bowl and three tiny drops from another vial into the second. Patrick immediately smells something that seems like italian food and something flowery. Jon uses cotton swabs to stir the two little bowls.

 

He grabs both bowls and steps back over to assume the position between Patrick’s legs. Immediately, Patrick’s stomach does a weird flippy thing again. These oils are doing some weird shit.

 

“So one is lavender and one is basil,” Jon starts to explain in a quiet tone, hushed for the small space between them. “Both are to boost your immunity and to help you breathe clearly. I’m going to put them on some places around your head and neck.”

 

“Why?” Patrick asks just as softly, staring at the way Jon’s adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Patrick is accepting of his fate now. There is no deterring Jon so he might as well be complicit and get it over with. In the quiet kitchen, the only noise the steady hum of the refrigerator and the quiet bubble and hiss from time to time of the soup on the stove.

 

“Why what?” Jon asks as he dips a finger into one bowl. Why lots of things, Patrick thinks to himself fuzzily, his brain whirling with a lot of things he can’t seem to pin down with Jon all up in his business this way.

 

“Why,” Patrick coughs lightly and opts for the easier road. “Why on my head and neck and stuff?”

 

“It’s tied into pulse points and key absorbing areas,” Jon explains softly as he dabs a spot on Patrick’s left temple, Patrick’s eyes immediately fluttering shut.

 

Jon moves over to the other temple, fingers firm but gentle as they rub a tiny circle. Patrick feels Jon’s fingers smooth across his forehead and down the sides of his neck, where the skin is super sensitive below his ears. Patrick shivers. Jon’s hands are warm as they reach around to the back of his neck, and Patrick knows that if he opened his eyes, his face would be a mere inch or two away from Jon’s chest. He can feel the heat off Jon’s body.

 

“Isn’t, um,” Patrick is almost whispering. It just seems like this is a whispering time. “Isn’t lavender something that is used for sleeping and calming?” His eyes are still shut and he’s keeping them that way but he can hear the surprised pleased tone in Jon’s voice when he answers.

 

“That’s right, it is,” Jon says approvingly. “But it actually has a lot of uses. Why?”

 

“Because,” Patrick takes a deep breath, his head so close to Jon’s chest that he actually almost felt the vibration when Jon spoke. “Because my heart and skin are doing anything but sleeping right now.” He snaps his mouth shut when he realizes it spoke without clearing the message with his brain first.

 

He feels Jon step back and he slowly opens his eyes. Jon is staring at him thoughtfully, a mixture of concern and something else that Patrick doesn’t recognize on his face.

 

“Are you feeling okay though?” Jon asks quietly. “Sometimes the oils can be a bit much. And if you are feeling sick …..”

 

“I think I’m fine,” Patrick forces a smile. “I just didn’t feel sleepy or anything. If anything, I felt all super alert and highly tuned in to, uh, things around me.” His face feels like it is on fire but that has nothing to do with the oils. That’s just good old fashioned embarrassment.

 

“Okay,” Jon nods after a moment. He turns to wash his hands and repeat the steps with new oils and little bowls.

 

Patrick uses the time to catch his breath and drink some water. The late afternoon sun is coming through the small window above the sink and it seems to light up Jon’s face as he works quietly. Patrick never noticed that the dude had quite possibly the longest and fullest eyelashes of anyone he had ever seen, male or female, and that they seemed to brush gracefully against his cheeks when he blinked occasionally. He watches the way Jon’s shoulders and back move as he worked on the bowls, the t-shirt tight enough that each dip and twist of muscle could be seen. It was actually pretty breath-taking.

 

What the fuck?

 

Patrick is not going to freak out. The oils might be making him a little dizzy or vulnerable or something, but it wasn’t like that was a new notice on his part. Jon works hard on his physical body and was the best hockey player Patrick had ever played alongside. It would be impossible to not notice that Jon was a good looking guy and had a great body. He can admit that. He can totally admit that. Well, not to Tazer because his ego doesn’t need that stroke. It’s just a little disconcerting because that view has never caused Patrick’s heart to race before.

 

“Okay,” Jon turns around and Patrick’s eyes flit to the floor, feeling like thirteen year old busted for watching the female lifeguard at the pool or something. “So this is melaleuca oil.” Jon’s voice is very low, the mood still calling for quiet tones. “Some people like the smell. Its very distinct.”

 

Patrick’s nose crinkles when he smells it. Kind of like a cross between his grandma’s basement and maybe paint thinner. He must have said it outloud because Jon grins.

 

“Yeah,” Jon chuckles and Patrick is struck by the way his face brightens when he isn’t closed off in front of the media or public, when its open and freely shared with Patrick. “I read that someone once said it smelled like a combination of mashed potatoes and meat tenderizer.”

 

“But that would smell good,” Patrick counters, his eyes falling to the pulse in Jon’s throat as Jon moves back into position. “This smells like ass.”

 

“It’s not that bad, you giant baby,” Jon rolls his eyes and then pauses, biting at his lip. “Okay so this one I smooth over your throat and upper chest.”

 

Patrick blinks, using all of the restraint in his body not to display any of the sudden inexplicable freaking out at the idea of Jon’s hands gently trailing his throat and upper chest.

 

“I guess I understand why you gave me this shitty North Dakota t-shirt,” Patrick, as he often does when emotions threaten to gurgle up out of his throat unchecked, goes for the joke.

 

“It’s not shitty, dumbfuck,” Jon defends. “But yeah. That’s why. So rather than take it off, you can probably just pull the front down a bit. I can get where I need to that way.” Jon’s cheeks are bright pink.

 

Patrick doesn’t speak two languages like some smug people in the room. But he is fluent in Jonathan Bryan Toews. And he can tell suddenly that he is not the only one being strangely affected here. It gives him a little confidence, that they are on even footing here.

 

“Hey Jon,” Patrick stops him by grabbing his wrist gently as he moves to rub the oils. He looks up into Jon’s eyes, wide and brown and startled. “Why are you even doing all of this?” Jon stares for a while and then his face softens, a faint blush across his nose.

 

“Because,” he says simply, but maybe as seriously as Patrick has ever seen him. “Because I refuse to accept that anyone other than you is taking it all home this year, Pat. No collarbones and no plagues. And I vow to do whatever it takes to get you that scoring title, and several other titles. No way does something like a virus take you out of that. And I’m not a doctor,” his eyes drop and he smiles sheepishly. “But if this kind of thing is good enough for western cultures for hundreds of years, then I figure it sure as hell can’t hurt.” His smirk drops and he shrugs, “I guess that’s kind of stupid, huh?”

 

Patrick can feel Jon’s pulse racing through where he’s rubbing small circles on Jon’s wrist. Patrick hadn’t even realized he had been doing that. He stares at Jon, taking in this face that he’s known as well as his own for years. It’s like he’s seeing him for the first time today though. And it’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

 

“Not stupid, Jon,” Patrick says quietly. “Actually pretty humbling.”

 

Jon’s eyes bore into his, the darkness in the black depths intense and focused. They stare at each other for a long time. It’s a moment of sorts. What it means is completely beyond Patrick’s comprehension right now, but it’s a moment.

 

A car alarm down the street breaks them out of their reverie and they blink at each other. Jon seems a little flustered. His hands are twitchy and he won’t meet Patrick’s eyes. Jon doesn’t get to be flustered. Patrick doesn’t allow that.

 

So Patrick, for once, takes the lead with a joke. “You know,” he says with forced lightness. “between the tea, the soup, and these oils, if a bear broke in here and ate me right now, I’d probably taste like a marinated chicken. I bet I’m delicious.”

 

Too late Patrick realizes the double-entendre of that and they both redden up fiercely. Patrick coughs and he watches as Jon’s face slides into a fond smile and head shake.

 

“Would you fight a bear for me Jonny?” Patrick flutters his eyelashes and grins, belying the flutters in his stomach..

 

“You know,” Jon is thoughtful and his face is soft with an expression Pat doesn’t recognize. “I probably would.”

 

Patrick’s chest squeezes and he looks down at the floor quickly, not wanting his face to give away the battle that he’s suddenly fighting. Suddenly, and yet maybe not so suddenly if he’s honest with himself. Today is definitely out of the blue but what seems to be stretching tightly between them, well that may have been bubbling under the surface for a very long time. Patrick can be pretty oblivious when he needs to be. And God knows Jon can be a total moron..

 

His thoughts are interrupted after a moment when Jon hip checks his knee gently.

 

“Hey,” Jon says quietly. “You need to tilt your head back and lift your chin up so I can get to your neck.”

 

Patrick takes a deep shuddering breath and closes his eyes to tip his chin up. He feels Jon’s long cool fingers starting to ghost along his jawline and down the sides and front of his throat. It feels amazing. Why does it feel amazing? Patrick doesn’t know which way is up, down, or sideways but he focuses on the long gentle sweeps and dips of those fingers, the way they give the perfect amount of pressure so that it isn’t so light that it’s ticklish or so harsh that it’s jarring.

 

Patrick can tell that Jon is close and leaning over him. The light gentle puffs of air from Jon’s mouth breeze over his cheeks. It’s very …. intimate. The rhythmic rubbing and squeezing from Jon’s fingers are hypnotic and Pat relaxes despite himself as the warmth seeps into his skin. This isn’t something they do. But for right now, Patrick can’t think of one single legitimate reason why that is.

 

“There,” Jon says softly and Pat feels him step back. Patrick’s body leans forward slightly to chase after him before Pat can shut that shit down. He opens his eyes warily to find that Jon has stepped back to the sink to wash his hands and rinse out the ceramic bowls.

 

Patrick stares at the ceiling. He then tries the cupboards. Then the soup pot and the refrigerator and the stupid elaborate coffee machine that Jon’s mom got him for Christmas last year. He tries to stare at anything and everything except Jon’s back and the way his waist tapers down into his shorts, the way the shirt pulls up just enough to show a sliver of skin when he reaches up to grab a larger ceramic bowl. Fuck fuck fuck, Patrick bites at his lower lip.

 

“Okay,” Jon turns around. He seems tense, nervous. Patrick blinks. Jon is never tense or nervous around him. Angry, annoyed, infuriated, amused, obnoxious -- all of those things, sure. But never tense or nervous. Patrick reaches forward with a bare foot and nudges Jon’s shin.

 

“Well are we done then?” Patrick honest to God has no idea what he wants the answer to that question to be. Jon shakes his head back and forth slowly and then quickly, as if he’s shaking off confusion.

 

“No, um,” Jon coughs. “One more group of oils. They, uh, they are some of the most potent ones.”

 

“Yeah?” Pat queries, staring at the bowl in Jon’s hands as he mixes it slowly. Jon is staring into the bowl like it’s his job. “What are they?”

 

“A bunch,” Jon doesn’t look up. “There is oil of oregano, more melaleuca, eucalyptus, lemon, and frankincense. The herbalist made it up special.” He offers the bowl up so Patrick can smell it. It isn’t awful but it clears his nostrils and makes his eyes sting.

 

“I am going to smell like a giant bottle of salad dressing to that bear, Jonny,” he jokes weakly.

 

“I still won’t let him eat you,” Jon says, staring at Patrick with an emotion Pat doesn’t know. And Pat knows all of Jon’s emotions. All hint of joking is gone in the intense black of Jon’s eyes.

 

This feels chaotic and reckless and Patrick can’t find normal footing. But part of him doesn’t care, is daring enough to see where this goes, terrifying though it is. Jon just stands there and stares. Long enough that Patrick moves to break the ice. He dramatically tilts his head back and pulls down the neck of the shirt.

 

“I’m into your looney this far,” Pat stares at the ceiling, pretending a bravado he doesn’t feel. “So we might as well see it through. Hit me.” Patrick waits, arms flung out. But when Jon doesn’t move, Patrick sits back normally. “What’s the hold up?”

 

“So,” Jon lets a tense breath out in one giant whoosh. “This one needs to be massaged into your chest and back.” Jon’s eyes drilling into Patrick’s face make Patrick itchy and awkward.

 

“You’re just trying to get your shirt back,” Patrick jokes weakly.

 

Jon doesn’t even snort at that. He just continues to pin Patrick with the stare, the undefined and new emotion lurking there.

 

“Um,” Patrick looks around. “Is it better for me to sit up or …..” He can feel his face absolutely flaming. He knows Jon sees it too. He just isn’t sure he knows how Jon will interpret that redness. And Jon’s face is giving no clue. He just continues to stand there and clutch the bowl so tightly his knuckles are white. Patrick prods again, “Yo, Taze? Am I sitting for this or something else?”

 

Jon’s eyes blink slowly, full lashes sweeping down onto his cheeks. Why oh why is that something Patrick notices?

 

“Sit for now,” Jon orders in a low voice. Patrick nods dumbly and grabs the bottom of his shirt, pausing shyly for a moment. He feels hot and flushed and the shirt coming off will be a relief. But at the same time, he’s not sure he’s ever going to feel quite so naked.

 

Patrick takes a deep breath and pulls the shirt over his head, clutching it in front of him almost protectively. The chill on his bare skin causes it to goosepimple and he’s mortified to see that his nipples are rock hard. He crosses his arms and pretends to be annoyed, an obvious attempt to divert attention that they can probably see in the space shuttle but he’s going to pray that Jon is oblivious.

 

“It might be cold at first,” Jon’s voice is low. Patrick nods, closing his eyes and dropping his chin to his chest as Jon moves behind him. He hears Jon set the bowl down on the kitchen island. He feels Jon’s heat radiating and even though they aren’t touching, he feels like Jon is pressed along his back and the warmth is distracting but welcome.

 

Jon’s fingers are feather-light, barely touching along the back of Patrick’s neck, starting high up almost into his curls. Patrick flinches and shivers.

 

“Sorry,” Jon whispers, not really sounding all that sorry, as he moves to long, light strokes on Patrick’s shoulders.

 

Patrick shivers again. He would say it was because he was half-dressed and cold. But Patrick is actually burning up. Everything about his body feels like it is on fire. He’s glad for the balled up t-shirt on his lap because, he is mortified to realize, that he has grown uncomfortably aroused.

 

Patrick conjures up images of the least sexy things he can think of. Q in a speedo, nuns, dead puppies. Anything to take care of whatever is going on in his body. But his go-to’s are failing him in a big way. He bites hard on his lower lip as Jon’s hands ghost up along the sensitive skin under his ears and he almost moans when they slide lightly down his spine. He can’t seem to stop shivering.

 

“You’re trembling, Patrick. Are you cold?” Jon’s voice is low and right at his ear, Jon’s breath wafting across his ear lightly like a caress. Patrick doesn’t trust his voice so he just shakes his head vigorously. Jon snorts lightly and Patrick swears he can feel Jon’s lips graze his ear.

 

He moans.

 

FUCK. He freezes. Jon freezes. There is no denying that just happened. No going back. No pretending it was anything other than it was.

 

Time seems to crawl and Patrick can hear the tick-tock-tick-tock of a clock somewhere. Or maybe it’s his heart. Or maybe it’s Jon’s.

 

They both just stay frozen, locked in place, neither willing to be the first to move.

 

Patrick’s brain frantically thinks about how long he has known Jon, how close they have been for so long. How they fight. How they celebrate. How they understand each other in ways no one else seems to. Patrick thinks about relationships they’ve both had, how they’ve both complained that while the girls have been great, neither one of them has ever felt like they could be 100 percent themselves. That they only time they ever felt like they were truly accepted and able to be the people the really were, was in the locker room, on the ice, or with each other.

 

Patrick may not be the most self-realizing individual on the planet, but the puzzle pieces are sliding into place and he feels like a moron for not realizing any of this sooner. That it took stinky oils and smelly soup in Jon’s kitchen for them, or at least him, to have this epiphany.

 

Of course, he has absolutely zero idea what is going through Jon’s head. His stomach drops to think that Jon may not be having the same light bulb moment that he is right now. What if Jon is mortified? What if Jon is trying to chew off his metaphorical arm to get the hell out of there? What if Jon doesn’t feel the same?

 

Patrick’s heart threatens to panic itself right out of his chest. He’s dealt with a ton of shit in his life. Mostly self-caused but a ton nonetheless. He can deal with almost anything. But he can’t ever deal with losing Jon. Jon is the one constant in his life. There have been moments when Patrick has thought he could more easily stomach losing a sibling than Jon. And if his sisters found that out he would be dead. So that’s saying something pretty huge.

 

Patrick takes a deep shaky breath. Okay. Okay. So, Jon is still standing there, harsh breaths puffing in Patrick’s hair. He stopped touching Patrick but he hasn’t stepped away. That has to mean something right? If he was disgusted wouldn’t he have just shoved Patrick off the stool and run out of the house screaming or something? The thought settles him a bit, calms the panic.

 

Patrick is twenty-seven years old. He could, if he chooses, treat this like any of a number of regretful decisions in his life by minimizing it, mocking it, or ignoring it altogether. But something shifts in him, a sudden but powerful realization that he doesn’t want to run or drink this away, that he actually wants to meet it head on and see what it is and where it goes. Is he growing up? Holy shit - that’s more terrifying than whatever it is he’s feeling about Jon right now.

 

A sense of peace flows over him. Yep, no matter what, he and Jon will be okay. This is a message that he hears in the deepest part of his soul. Jon may throw oil at him or dodge the emotions he’s about to let loose, but they will still figure it out. They will still be them. There’s no way the two of them would let it be otherwise. And that strengthens Patrick to be the one to take the first step.

 

“Um,” he starts with a whisper, Jon still frozen behind him, breath in his hair. “So, do your, uh, do your oils, um.” He takes a deep breath. Fuck it. “I think maybe your oils are making me gay, Jon.”

 

Patrick holds his breath. Like literally. Waiting for Jon to react. Patrick threw it out there with absolutely no shame or artifice. If Jon had any doubts about Patrick’s feelings, they have to be gone now.

 

Patrick feels Jon step around him, turning his back to him as Jon grabs a towel from next to the sink and works the oil out of his hands. Patrick bites his lip and clenches his fists under his legs, still trembling and shirtless. He watches as Jon seems to lazily work at each finger and tries to not let that inspire his brain wander down paths he’s not sure he’s fully ready for quite yet.

 

When Jon finally turns around, he leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. Patrick’s heart clenches. Body language is a thing right? That doesn’t seem like a positive and welcoming sight. But as he stares into Jon’s face, he doesn’t see any anger or trepidation or worry. He doesn’t see any emotion. The giant Canadian robot is just staring at him thoughtfully, analyzing or looking for something. Patrick sits still and lets him keep looking, hoping he will find it soon.

 

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” Jon’s voice is very low and gravely when he finally speaks. Patrick isn’t sure what that means.

 

“What doesn't work what way?” Patrick parrots, swallowing hard.

 

“The oils don’t turn you gay,” Jon says seriously.

 

“I’m not going to debate nature vs nurture with you, Jonathan,” Patrick rolls his eyes. “I have no idea what the oils do or don’t do. All I know is that I am sitting here having one of the greatest moments of self-discovery in my life. And of course you are dead fucking center at the heart of things.”

 

Jon cocks his head and studies Patrick like he’s never seen him before. But there is a softness to his face, a dancing to his eyes that Jon can’t quite hide.

 

Patrick narrows his eyes. He knows Jonathan Toews.

 

“You mother fucker,” Patrick sputters. “Did you already know about all of this?” Patrick gestures between the two of them like it’s the international symbol for unrealized-years-of-pining-and-sexual-attraction-and-you’re-probably-my-actual-fucking-soul-mate-and-it’s-entirely-probable-that-I-am-head-over-fucking-heels-in-love-with-your-giant-stupid-hockey-ass.

 

Luckily, Jonathan Toews knows a little Patrick Kane himself because he smiles softly and clearly does understand the international symbol that Patrick is laying down. He shrugs cheekily, smugly and Patrick vows that he is going to destroy him. Just as soon as he gets done loving him. Which is probably never ever going to happen. Because he’s pretty sure he’s going to love Jon until long after the two of them have left this planet and are screaming at each other on the bench in Heaven.

 

“Come here, Patrick,” Jon says in a voice that should not at all make Patrick’s body jerk in places it should not be jerking right now. Patrick narrows his eyes.

 

“No,” Patrick says stubbornly, mimicking the arms across the chest as he sits on his stool. “You come here.” Fuck that guy for realizing this at some point before today and not letting Pat in on it. He can work for it now.

 

“Please?” Jon does the crinkle cheek smile. Well shit. How is Patrick supposed to fight that?

 

Patrick stands and takes one step.

 

“Now you,” Pat raises an eyebrow in challenge. Jon rolls his eyes and takes one step.

 

“Now you,” Jon fights the grin that plays around his mouth.

 

“You know,” Patrick says as he takes one very tiny step, “We’re totally going to talk about your inability to compromise without being a bossy prick.”

 

“Are we?” Jon’s voice is smooth and definitely seductive as he takes an equally small step forward. Patrick’s knees do NOT wobble a little.

 

“Oh we’re going to talk about that and so much more,” Patrick warns and regains knee strength enough for another small step. They are barely two feet apart now.

 

“I think,” Jon’s eyes are hot and his voice is deadly soft. Patrick has to bite his lip to keep from moaning at the visceral reaction it causes as Jon cuts the distance in half. “That talking is the last thing we’re going to do for a little while.”

 

“I fucking hate your guts right now,” Patrick says breathlessly, suddenly timid. He swallows hard, that last tiny step between them is his to take but the gulf seems vast. Jon sees this, knows this about Patrick. Knows it all. Jon smiles softly and reaches his hand out, palm up.

 

“That’s too bad,” he says softly, looking into Patrick’s eyes with so much emotion that Patrick would swear it was someone else if he didn’t know those eyes better than his own. “Because the truth is,” Jon’s voice is soft, and serious, and sweet. “I love absolutely everything about you and will spend every bit of strength and determination in my body showing you. But you gotta take that last step for me, Peeks.”

 

Patrick looks into those big dumb poop brown eyes and at that giant forehead with the receding hairline and at the stupid lips with the scars because someone was as clumsy in his youth as he is as an adult, and can’t stop the giant beaming dimpled smile that spreads across his own face.

 

“Shut up and kiss me, you giant hippie healing moron,” Patrick reaches his hand out and lays it gently onto Jon’s as he takes that tiny final step.

 

Jon is more than happy to comply.

 

 

The end.


End file.
